


Phase Shift

by zuzeca



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because Shockwave has a terrible sense of humor, Consent Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sticky Sex, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago on Cybertron, police captain Orion Pax learned a lesson in how small changes can make large differences. An AU surrounding the events of “Chaos Theory”, Orion Pax/Megatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of an older fic from LJ, originally forged of two disparate kinkmeme prompts around the events of "Chaos Theory". Link to the original prompts are [here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8568969#t8568969) and [here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8569737#t8569737), though I wouldn’t recommend reading the second one before the fic unless you don’t mind spoiling a plot twist. Heads up though, the fic includes some prisoner/captor power dynamics which technically render it dub-con, but I did not write it as such, and all that takes place is consensual for both parties. Happy reading everybody.

Orion flicked a finger across the scratched datapad before him, scanning the rapidly scrolling glyphs. Pausing, he reread a brief passage of the expansive treatise, reiterating the futility of violent revolution and the need for change in the core ideals of the population before any kind of equality could be established.

_It’ll take a communication to the bartender to confirm it, but I’d bet my next paycheck that this Megaton, or whatever his name is, isn’t responsible for the damage to Whirl’s cadets. Somehow I doubt a mech who spends his free time composing essays on nonviolent protest is the type to get in barfights._

Skimming through the rest of the treatise, he closed up the file and prepared to shut down the datapad, meaning to add it to the labeled bin for the mech’s effects, to be returned upon his release.

_It’s almost a pity this guy was forged as a miner. He’s amazingly articulate. I mean, it’s a bit farfetched to claim widespread corruption in the Senate, but even so…I hate to stop reading. I wonder what he’s got in the other files?_

Orion hesitated. Technically none of the contents of the datapad were his concern and rifling through Megaton’s personal files was at best a gross invasion of privacy that while not strictly illegal, _was_ frowned upon, but…

_Perhaps just a quick look._

The datapad, as it turned out, was a treasure trove: essays, lengthy reflections upon social injustice which flashed by in an instant despite their size, poems like small, gleaming jewels, journal entries which painted a picture of hope shining in immeasurable darkness, a portrait of a mech of strong passions, shackled by a system which told him what he could be, where he could go.

_“…first day on the city surface, thought I’d gone blind, so many lights and colors, even the mineral content in the energon makes it sweeter… saw the marks on my superstructure more clearly than ever before, scars from a careless drill, grime ground into the seams… utterly foolish to care, doesn’t affect my utility one whit, and yet—”_

“Captain!”

Orion started from his reverie, “Springarm?”

The mech stood braced against the lintel of the door, systems humming audibly, as though he’d run full tilt, “Sir, you have to get down here. That miner from Tarn, Whirl, he’s, I think he’s going to kill him, sir!”

Orion leapt to his feet, “Take me there immediately.”

 

He didn’t have to ask Springarm which cell; the sickening, deliberate clang of metal on metal marked the way, echoing in the silent corridor.

_Silence. No screaming._

Something cold twisted within his spark as he wrenched the cell door open.

The miner lay splayed out across the floor, bound and leaking energon from a dozen places, one optic shattered, the other glaring up at Whirl in mute defiance. Whirl raised one pointed fist. 

Orion wasn’t even aware of moving. 

Whirl crashed to the ground, sparks flying as he scraped across the floor. Enraged, he started to roll, turning towards his attacker, “How dare you—!”

“Stay down.”

He nearly didn’t recognize his own voice. 

Whirl hesitated, optic flickering, but remained where he was. 

Venting deeply, he tried to gather his flaring energy field under control.

“Springarm, a medic.”

As the mech leapt to comply, he knelt at the miner’s side, “Megaton, was it? I’m Orion Pax, police captain of this sector. Are you alright?”

The miner spat out a bit of energon and met his optics. “As I told your drudge over there,” he jerked his head in Whirl’s direction. “And the guy before him. It’s _Megatron_ , with an ‘r’.”

Then his remaining optic dimmed and he promptly passed out.

 

In general, access to a bot undergoing repairs was severely limited, but when it came to law enforcement, many medics were willing to bend regulations a shade. Orion leaned against a wall, propping himself out of the way as tiny DMF repair drones swarmed over the prone body of the miner.

_Megatron. Megatron of Tarn._

The medic directing the concert of small drones, a blocky, blue bot with a vehicle alt who went by the designation Siphon, leaned over a readout screen and clicked with dismay, “Not sure how much I can do for him. The drones have patched the energon leaks, so he won’t bleed out, but he’s non-standard construction. I haven’t got the parts on hand. And there’s the issue of payment?”

“I’m taking care of it,” said Orion quietly. “Do whatever you can.”

Siphon hummed in thought, “Well, I can order up a new optic and the other odds and ends in a few megacycles, but his transformation cog’s shot straight to the Pit and we’re backlogged on delivery. It could be as much as a decacycle.”

“And until then, what do you plan to do? Keep him in stasis?”

“Primus, no! He’ll be slow and sore no doubt, but it’s far better to have him up and taking energon on his own. Does he have a place to stay?”

It didn’t even occur to him to hesitate, “He does.”

Siphon gave him a sidelong glance, but didn’t object, “Very well. I’ll wake him up and get him discharged for now. You may want to stand by; he’ll probably be woozy and unsure of his location.”

The flip of a few switches and Megatron’s remaining optic flickered to life. Orion bent over the berth, “Megatron? You’re at the Deltaran Medical Facility in Rodion. Do you recall what happened to you?”

The optic shuttered and focused on him, “I think I’d be hard-pressed to forget, Orion Pax, considering I feel like twisted slag.”

Orion smiled behind the cover of his battlemask, “Good to know you’re possessed of a sense of humor, Megatron with an ‘r’.”

Megatron glanced about the room, “You said this is the DMF? There was a mech who was arrested with me, Impactor. I was informed that he was brought here while I was in holding. Is there any way to find out his condition?”

Orion turned to the medic, “Siphon?”

The mech busied himself at the console for a moment, “Surprisingly, he’s doing much better than you are. Banged up, but fully ambulatory as of two megacycles ago. He should be being discharged soon.”

Megatron huffed in bitter amusement, “Your lackey needs to train his cadets better, if they can’t even take out a miner with numbers on their side.”

Orion’s fist clenched at his side, “As he’s currently imprisoned for misconduct, Whirl will not be participating in any cadet training.” He looked directly into the bright red of Megatron’s optic, “Nor will he be in a position to harm anyone else.”

Siphon cleared his intakes. “Now,” he said, nodding to Megatron. “Your systems should be producing a comprehensive residual damage report. I’m transmitting a data packet containing medical advice regarding your current condition and a tentative future appointment for part replacement.”

“Part replacement?” Megatron’s optic flickered as he scanned over the internal report, “I have transformation cog damage? That’s unacceptable.”

“I realize that restriction to root mode is highly inconvenient,” Siphon replied. “But the parts should be in relatively quickly—”

“You don’t understand,” Megatron grimaced in frustration. “I’m due back on shift in three point eight megacycles. My supervisor isn’t going to accept transformation cog failure as an excuse for not showing up.”

“I could always transmit a medical report,” Siphon began, but Megatron shook his head.

“A nice thought, but you have to see it from his point of view. A gap in his team means a drop in output; I’ll be replaced by the time I can drag myself back down to the mines.” His optic shuttered and dimmed, “And when he hears my injuries resulted from a tangle with the police? I’ll be hard-pressed to regain my position.”

Siphon looked at Orion helplessly.

“One step at a time,” Orion replied, in a calm, firm tone which was technically designed for hostage negotiations. “Let’s see about discharge orders first?”

Siphon hurried to comply, his fingers flying over the console as he turned away in discomfort. Megatron didn’t respond and Orion tried once more to engage him, “Megatron?”

Megatron pressed the heels of his palms to his face, and let out a low laugh, “You know what the irony of it is? Sometimes, down there in the dark, with my intakes choked with soot and the constant maddening drone of everyone around me, sometimes I’d dream about being rid of my job. Of just choosing to put down my tools and walk away. And now, when it finally happens, it’s not even my choice.”

Pain contracted across Orion’s spark, “I regret that you have suffered at the hands of my subordinates. As recompense, I hope you will accept lodging at my residence until such time as you can acquire stable employment and housing?”

Megatron started, “Lodge? With you?”

“Unless you have previous residence elsewhere?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing except a barrack with the others.”

“I regret I cannot offer you a separate space, but my quarters are possessed of an extra berthroom, if you would be amenable?”

Megatron cocked an optic ridge at him, “And I suppose you offer lodging to every injured suspect?”

“As of my communique with the bartender where you were arrested, you are no longer a suspect. And as for your…unique situation, it has never occurred before.”

“Point taken. Very well, Orion Pax, I find myself in a position in which I am unable to refuse your offer.”

_Clever with his words, he didn’t say yes._ Regarding the other mech steadily, he responded, “Never doubt your ability to refuse, Megatron. I am willing to make other arrangements if the situation is unacceptable to you.”

Megatron gave him an unreadable look, “No need for all that, I find your current offer generous.” He reached out his hand, “Thank you.”

Orion caught the blunt fingers and they shook, “You are welcome.”

 

“I’m beginning to think that medic needs a processor overhaul. His definition of ‘highly inconvenient’ is utterly inadequate.”

Orion laughed, pausing to readjust Megatron’s arm from where it was slung across his shoulders, “It’s not so bad. At least you can walk.”

“At a pace better suited to an overloaded freighter. Perhaps we’ll reach your abode sometime in the next vorn? Before that electrical storm they keep mentioning on loudspeaker breaks?”

“Fair enough,” Orion straightened, subtly adjusting his stance to take Megatron’s weight as it shifted and sagged against him and walked them over to a nearby building. “Lean here for a click.”

Once he was satisfied Megatron was braced and wouldn’t topple, he stepped back and shifted to alt mode. Whirling his tires as his superstructure settled into place, he backed up towards Megatron and offered the short, flat bed, designed for hitching freight, “Climb aboard.”

Metal clanged and his struts sagged as Megatron struggled onto the bed, “I have to admit, this isn’t quite the alt I expected for a police captain.”

“Yes, well, when they finally design a ten ton motorcycle, I’ll be first in line to scan it.”

“Touché. Let’s roll out, Orion Pax.”

 

Megatron regarded the stark walls of Orion’s quarters, optic scanning over the meager pieces of furniture, “It’s very…”

“Austere?”

“I was going to say spacious.”

“I only moved in half a vorn ago, to be closer to work. I don’t usually spend much time here.”

“I see.”

He hiked Megatron’s weight once more and walked them towards the tiny chamber embedded in the far wall, “Let’s get you settled in the guest room.”

Megatron made a noncommittal noise, but blocks of hobbling had tuned their systems and Orion could detect the exhausted flicker of his energy field. Carefully he lowered the other mech to the berth, rolling him into position with a squawk of strained metal, “Alright?”

“Fine,” Megatron shifted, settling.

“Would you like some energon?”

“Just rest for now, thank you.”

Orion hesitated before reaching into subspace and placing the datapad on the berth beside him, “I meant to return this earlier, you didn’t have any other effects with you, correct?”

As though a switch had been thrown, they were officer and citizen again. Megatron shook his head, “No, that’s everything.”

Orion tamped down on the urge to reach out, to recapture the easy banter, “Rest well.”

Megatron grunted in acknowledgement and offlined his optic.

 

Offshift cycle was well advanced, and it would have been advisable to recharge, but Orion found himself restless. When the electrical storm rendered watching the newsfeed impossible, he settled into a seat in the main living area with a small cube of energon and listened to the static crackle against the walls, a stranger in his own home.

_I’ve never done anything like that before. A vorn as captain and I’ve never struck anyone under my command. This is hardly the first time I’ve had an officer engage in misconduct, why was I so angry? What is it about this miner?_

_Why can’t I seem to remain objective?_

 

He woke suddenly, into the void of sound left by the storm’s passing, the flicker of a recharge dream escaping his processor: screams backlit by the red glow of optics. He shook his head to clear it. Foolish, Megatron hadn’t made a sound when he was beaten.

Bleary, he leaned forward in the chair and checked his chronometer. Five breems before onshift cycle, hopefully enough to tend to Megatron before he had to leave for work.

He didn’t bother to engage the lights, allowing his optics to adjust as he made his way to the dispenser, retrieving a cube of energon and a container of coolant, and over to the guest room. Megatron was utterly still, systems humming in the even rhythm of recharge. 

Placing both containers on the floor beside the berth and silently grumbling over his lack of any sort of berthside table, he’d have to remedy that, he bent over the prone mech, “Megatron?”

The red optic blinked to life, “Orion?”

“I apologize for waking you, but I have to leave for work in a breem or two. I’ve brought energon and coolant, the medic mentioned some extra would speed your self-repair processes, but would you like to be moved to the main living area? There’s a newsfeed box.”

Megatron’s optic shuttered as he considered, “Yes, thank you.” He reached up from the berth.

Orion leaned down, allowing those blunt fingers to lock into the joints of his shoulders, and lifted, “Both seats can be adjusted to recline, so if—”

He broke off as sense-memory flared though his processor; _locked together, grappling as black fingers tore at his plating, vents choked with soot and the heat of cannon fire_. Reeling, he had to brace himself, dropping Megatron back to the berth as he did so.

The other mech grunted as he landed hard. Venting, he peered up at Orion, “What’s the matter, Pax? Forget to lift with your legs?”

_What was that? I’ve never, I haven’t…_

“Orion?”

Shaking himself, he hauled Megatron up once more, “My apologies. I recharged poorly last offcycle. I just had a…moment of disequilibrium.”

Megatron regarded him with suspicion, “You’re quite sure this is your guest room?”

“Yes, yes, no need to be concerned. I merely dozed off in a chair.”

Megatron still looked unconvinced. “Just be sure to keep your own components in shape. I’m in no condition to be dragging _you_ to the DMF.”

“Captain’s honor.”

“Very well,” Megatron said. “Now what’s this about a newsfeed box?”

 

Another onshift cycle, another set of menial citations. Orion glanced at the the identification number of the ticket and passed it down to Springarm, busy compiling the records for the next court hearing.

Springarm sighed, “More speeding violations? Almost makes me miss the organized crime racket.”

“Perhaps we should be less vigilant in carrying out our duties.” 

Springarm cocked an optic ridge, “What’s got sludge in your tubing, Pax? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Nothing.”

Springarm shrugged, “Fair enough, but in the interest of freedom of information, it looks like the rest of these are speeding citations. I know you’ve got crud in your gears over Whirl, but he’ll keep for a cycle or two in solitary. Might even give him a bit of perspective. Why don’t you do what every other sane captain would and delegate? I can finish these up.”

Orion hesitated, optics drawn inexorably to the stack of datapads, “I…”

Springarm jerked his head towards the door, “Go on, Captain. Have an extra cube for me or something.”

_Perhaps it would be alright._

Rising, he stretched, plating clicking as it settled, “I’ll keep my comlink open.”

Springarm waved a vague salute in his direction, “Have fun.”

 

Megatron glanced up from his datapad, stylus pausing in its flurry of activity as he entered, “Welcome back.”

Orion nodded in acknowledgement, indicating the empty cubes resting next to the chair, “More energon?”

“That would be most appreciated.”

Scooping up the cubes, he caught a glimpse of several lines of glyphs over Megatron’s shoulder before the other mech shut down the datapad and set it aside. Clamping down on the urge to pry, he refilled both cubes with energon. Passing one to Megatron, he settled himself in the other chair, “How went your cycle?”

Megatron frowned into his cube, “Well enough. And yourself?”

“My subordinate sent me home early. Claimed I needed some time off.”

“Somehow, Orion Pax, I doubt anyone could send you anywhere against your will.”

“True,” he sipped at his own cube. “Perhaps I find myself drawn to the novelty of having someone to come home to.”

Megatron glanced sharply in his direction, but Orion met his gaze. After a moment the other mech looked away, “You are fortunate to have colleagues with your interests at spark.”

Orion made a noise of assent and they finished their fuel in silence. Setting his cube aside, he prepared to broach a delicate subject, “Would you be interested in cleaning up? Siphon indicated the integrity of your superstructure was sufficient that solvent exposure would not harm you, and I can drag a crate into the washrack for you to sit on.”

Megatron blinked down at himself as though he’d only just become aware of the grime adorning his plating, “I had forgotten to be honest. We usually engage in communal washing on a schedule.” He paused, “Engaged, that is.”

Hoping that the lack of immediate refusal indicated Megatron was amenable; Orion rose and retrieved a crate from storage. Installing it in the narrow washrack took but a moment and he returned to offer Megatron his hand, “Here.”

With a grind of machinery, he hauled the other mech from his seat and walked them over to seat him on the crate. Producing heated solvent out of the pipes of his old building was tricky, but he managed with a brief fiddling of dials, “Would you like some assistance?”

“As you will,” Megatron had offlined his optic and was sitting motionless beneath the spray of solvent, trails winding down his plating. Liquid swirled and guttered about the drain, thick with suspended dust.

Suppressing an exasperated sigh at the not-answer, Orion knelt beside him. Mindful of the newly set welding lines, he ran his hands across heavy armor plates, delving into creases to dislodge solidified grime.

_He’s built like a soldier, solid and made to take a lot of abuse. Some of these scars are old._

He tried not to linger on the tangled web.

He was working on a scrap of metal lodged between two external coolant lines when Megatron spoke, “You asked how I spent my cycle.”

“If you wish to tell me; this isn’t an interrogation.”

“I spent it in contemplation of a conundrum.”

“A conundrum?”

“Your actions at the DMF, and before.”

“How so?”

“I found your level of response disproportionate to what had occurred.”

“You would prefer I’d left you unrepaired? That I permitted Whirl to continue harming you?”

Megatron’s optic blinked on, “I’m not possessed of the resources to levy a suit against your department for the assault. Even if I had been deactivated, there would have been no investigation. A nameless miner disappearing in Iacon? Hardly newsworthy. The repairs I could explain away as guilt or a sense of responsibility, but this? And I saw you strike down Whirl at the holding facility. Is that how you commonly reprimand underlings?”

His spark turned over in his chest at the questions, so close to the ones that haunted him still, “No. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Then why jeopardize what I’m sure is an exemplary career? Why open your home and inconvenience yourself for a wasted spark?”

Something somewhere between agony and fury flared within him, “You’re not a wasted spark!”

“Am I not?” Megatron stared at him, piercing and direct, “I’m a miner; one of thousands, my only purpose to provide the energon to keep your cities running smoothly. When I was taken from my post another replaced me. Cybertron would not care tomorrow if I and a hundred of my brethren were offlined!”

“I would care!” Orion wasn’t even aware of how he’d gotten to his feet, “I would care and I would grieve!” The thought of those words silenced forever, thrown on a scrapheap before they could be spoken, be heard, sliced him to the core and choked him, “I would care.” 

“But why? You have no personal investment in me, save financial. Why bother with an emotional response towards me?”

Orion’s head sunk towards his chest and his voice dropped in helpless sorrow, “Because, Megatron with an ‘r’, you are my friend.”

Silence. He was well aware of how absurd he sounded, but it didn’t stop his spark from aching at the lack of response.

Trying to gather his emotions, Orion straightened, forcing his voice to modulate, “Siphon commed me earlier; you have an appointment for part replacement two onshift cycles from now. Let’s get you back to the berth so you can recharge.”

Bending, he pulled Megatron to his feet, leaning forward to cut the flow of solvent. The mech didn’t say a word, but he did slide his arm across Orion’s shoulders, mitigating the bulk of his mass a bit. He walked them back to the berthroom in silence.

He was lowering Megatron back to the berth when the other mech spoke, voice carefully neutral, “I can’t claim to understand why you would declare yourself my friend after less than a handful of cycles, or what you could possibly be receiving that would induce you to do all of this, Orion Pax. But regardless, thank you.”

 

He left for work early after another restless recharge cycle, hoping to gain some distance and perhaps some perspective. The atmosphere was tight with electricity, roiling with the sparking precursors of a storm.

The office was empty. Springarm and Wheelarch wouldn’t be in for a few breems at least. He didn’t bother with the regular lights, the emergency illumination cast a sufficient glow and the storm ran the risk of shorting them out. Settling into his desk, he reached for a stack of datapads.

“Well, Orion Pax, you seem to have become a hard mech to find of late.”

Three mechs filled the doorway of his office, hulking models with thick armor and broad limbs. The center one strode forward, a condescending smile on his face, optic visor glowing in the dimness.

“You see, Orion, an upstanding, methodical captain such as yourself often has a schedule to match. Vorn in, vorn out, you always arrive and depart at the same time. Until a few cycles ago, that is.”

Orion narrowed his optics at the tone, “It’s _Officer_ , and I don’t believe you’ve mentioned why you’re here.”

“Of course, of course. You see, it’s come to our attention that Whirl’s gotten into a spot of trouble of late over a misunderstanding. With a miner, I believe?”

“There isn’t much to misunderstand. Whirl injured a suspect in his custody.”

“Yes, yes, such a shame that happened. But I think Whirl’s learned his lesson after a few cycles in the brig, don’t you?”

Orion folded his hands across his desk, unease gathering around his spark “Whirl’s release is not negotiable at this time. He is currently in holding, where he will remain until he can be brought to trial and officially reprimanded.”

“You see, I don’t think you really want to do that. Whirl, let’s just say he’s got some friends in high places. Friends who would be rather embarrassed by a public trial. So what do we have to do to make this little mishap disappear? ”

“I don’t care if Whirl shares a branched spark with Senator Proteus. He broke the law, and he will be treated like any other suspect. You can try to bribe me or threaten me, but my principles are not up for compromise.”

“Fair enough, but you might want to keep in mind that you’re not the only one involved here. What’s a trial without witnesses? Or a plaintiff?”

“Get out.”

Smirking, the mech complied, his followers in his wake. Shaking with rage and something which felt far too close to fear for his liking, Orion leaned against the solid shape of his desk, venting deeply.

_What the slag have I gotten myself into?_

 

Onshift cycle dragged, made longer by the troubled swirl of his processor. At last he completed a sufficient quantity of his work to quiet the nagging demands of his programing and muttered a quick goodbye to Springarm, bracketed by a vague recommendation that he should probably knock off soon as well, before the brewing tempest reached its peak.

The storm was in full swing by the time he reached his building. Slipping into his unlit quarters, he paused a moment to take in the sounds of his home. Beneath the spark and crackle of charge crawling across the exterior walls he could hear an anomaly, the rhythmic hum of another’s systems.

_Megatron._

The other mech was stretched full length, reclined in one of the broad seats, optics dark in recharge. Beside him on the floor, his datapad glowed, a single spot of brightness.

_I wonder…_

He shouldn’t. Friends did not invade one another’s privacy and he’d never been invited to have a look, but part of him longed to see.

Succumbing to the siren call, he knelt by the chair as silently as he could manage and picked up the small pad. It was open to a passage, one he did not recognize.

_“…while objectively I can understand that Whirl is slag of the lowest kind, cowards whose petty cruelty is revealed when others are at their mercy, his words have struck a chord of truth in me, namely that by his hands, my death would have meant nothing. In that cell in Rodion, in the mines of Tarn, I was still nobody. In him I recognize deep corruption and an elite class, accountable to none, capable of killing and harming indiscriminately. While I would prefer a widespread shift in ideals, I fear that in the coming days, nonviolent revolution may no longer be an option. I fear that Whirl’s ilk will never give up their power; it can only be taken from them by force. And I find I would not be adverse to doing so._

_If hatred is what is offered me, then I shall pay hatred back in kind._

_Orion would no doubt be grieved to hear me speak so. Of all those in positions of power I have encountered, from the pits of Tarn to the surface of Iacon, he alone stands out an anomaly. I am unsure if he merely possesses more compassion than sense or if he truly believes in a world of equality. And if so, why serve a corrupt system? He is a representation of everything I should despise…_

_And yet, in the coming days, I feel as though I would be glad to have him by my side. To call him friend._

_The recent assassination attempt on Nominus Pri—”_

A hand on his shoulder startled Orion. Caught, he flinched up into the light of Megatron’s optic, “I…”

“To be honest, I had wondered what induced you to comm. the bartender. You are part of the police force after all, I should have suspected you’d rifle through my things.”

Shamed, he dropped his gaze, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

The hand squeezed his shoulder, hesitant at first, but then more firmly, “It’s alright, most of the things in there weren’t intended to remain private indefinitely. But I have to ask at least, what did you think?”

“I found it…” _Troubling, articulate, unspeakably sad, beautiful._ “I found it insightful.”

A click of interest, “Then you agree that the upper echelons have become corrupted? That the current status is but a twisted remnant of the time of the Knights of Cybertron?”

“I’m not sure about the Knights of Cybertron. But the idea of corruption in the Senate makes me uneasy and I fear…I fear that we may have already begun to fragment.” His spark twisted at the implied threat from Whirl’s comrade, one of Sentinel’s. So easy, so smug. No fear of reprisal because he knew there would _be none_ “And if that happens….”

“It will split Cybertron in two.”

“I feel like a fool.”

“Perhaps, Orion Pax, but then no more than I.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool. But I want to believe that there is another option than to repay hatred with hatred, violence with violence. Nothing good lies that way.”

“But would you fight?” Megatron’s optic sliced into him, searching, “Would you fight for freedom? For yourself? For those who have none?”

He didn’t hesitate, “Until my spark is extinguished.”

Megatron’s hand slid upwards from his shoulder to cup his face, “Then I believe, regardless of our differences of opinion, we can come to an accord.”

The caress was likely platonic, he could detect no amorous intention behind it, but the quiet, honest gesture still made his spark pulse and his core temperature spike. His cooling fans clicked on as he pressed the curve of his mask into Megatron’s palm.

A flicker of surprise danced across the edges of their overlapping energy fields and he saw Megatron hesitate. Struggling to regain some semblance of propriety, he started to withdraw, _Get ahold of yourself, Pax. He doesn’t want—_

Megatron’s grip tightened, tilting his face up, “Open your mask.”

The words were soft, but undoubtedly a command. He shuddered, again felt that odd, doubled sense of strangeness and familiarity, and obeyed.

Megatron’s blunt fingers stroked along the exposed plating of his face before probing inside his mouth. He licked at the digits, expanding his energy field to cover their bodies in an ephemeral stroke as he did so.

Megatron’s energy field spiked in response, buzzing against his own. A visible moment of consideration and his interface cover slid back.

Desire flared in his processor. He slid Megatron’s hand from his mouth and surged up, reaching for the rapidly pressurizing spike. Bending, he licked along the shape of it, tasting charge and lubricant mingled.

The low, helpless sound that Megatron made sang through his circuitry. Pressing his face to the interface array, he sought out Megatron’s valve and delved inside, licking across crackling nodes.

Megatron _bucked_ beneath him, the whir of his cooling fans springing to life merging with the roar of the storm outside. His hands curled around Orion’s helm, gripping at the blunt antennae and pleasure surged as his energy field buzzed across clustered sensors and activated them.

Humming his enjoyment in a high, resonant note, he worked at the delightfully responsive valve until at last, the sizzle of electricity, the involuntary jerk of components and Megatron convulsed in overload. He licked him through the tremors and dizzy with need, scrambled to his feet. 

The chair shrieked and groaned in protest of their combined weight as he struggled to straddle Megatron, withdrawing the cover on his own interface array as he did so. Beneath him, he felt Megatron shift in an attempt to orient them and the resultant pain from damaged circuitry spiked through their enmeshed energy fields.

“It’s alright,” he panted. “Just relax and let me.” Arching up, he angled his valve, already dripping, and slid down onto Megatron’s spike.

Oh, it was _glorious_. It had been so long, he’d forgotten the stretch, the slide and spark as matching nodes slipped against each other. Moaning in a way that, had he the processor space to consider such things, would have mortified him, he ground down, valve clenching and gripping at the filling presence.

Megatron let out a groan of frustration as he tried and failed to thrust up into Orion with any amount of force, “I swear, Orion Pax, as soon as I am fully functional I am going to frag you into next vorn.”

Orion laughed breathlessly, “Looking forward to it, Megatron with an ‘r’.”

Circuits singing with charge, he braced himself on the broad platform of Megatron’s shoulders and thrust. The red glow of Megatron’s optic dimmed, shuttering in pleasure at the smooth tempo of his movements.

“Prime,” he breathed.

Rhythm faltered, “What did you say?”

But Megatron didn’t seem to have heard him. “Primus!” he hissed, head lolling back.

Awash in a rising tide of ecstasy, he struggled to pull his processor together. But before he could form a coherent word Megatron’s energy field flared out wide and overload surged in them both, wiping out the troubled flicker in his spark as he tumbled offline.

 

The insistent beep of his internal chronometer brought Orion online. Groaning, he lifted his head, joints clanking and squeaking in protest.

“Come now, Orion, I can’t have worn you out _that_ badly,” Megatron’s voice was amused, and also very close by.

Rebooting his optics, he found himself draped across the miner’s chassis. Processor still spinning, he mumbled an apology and clambered off, “You should have woken me. Additional weight isn’t good for damaged components.”

“Such a flatterer, but I’m not so fragile as all that. Besides, after this cycle it shouldn’t be an issue anymore.”

His sluggish processor finally made the connection to his nagging chronometer, “Your appointment!”

“The very same. Now are you going to help me clean off, or should we give Siphon, shall we say, a surplus of data?”

Orion laughed as he hauled Megatron to his feet, “Frankly, I doubt if he’d be surprised.”

 

The washrack was far too small to accommodate both of them at once, but that didn’t stop Megatron from drawing Orion to the doorway and trying to wash him down as well. In the interest of saving time, he claimed.

Turned out Megatron’s tongue was just as clever when applied to tasks _other_ than rhetoric.

His chronometer was shrieking at him by the time he got them down to the street and settled Megatron on the bed of his alt mode. Tossing off a quick notification to Springarm that he’d be late coming in this cycle, Orion proceeded to demonstrate that speed and size weren’t always mutually exclusive.

They made it to the DMF with astroseconds to spare.

Later, as he watched Megatron stretch and examine his new components, matched optics alight, it was all he could do to keep from sweeping the miner into a rather indecorous embrace. He settled for a hand on his shoulder, “Want to test out that new transformation cog?”

“Is that a challenge or a proposition?”

“Both?”

Megatron smirked at him. “Oh most definitely, Pax,” he purred, leaning in close. “Race you.”

The sight of Megatron’s transformation, smooth and precise, went a long way towards overwhelming his disappointment when he lost.

 

Venting hard, Orion flopped to the floor of his quarters. Making a mental note to invest in a larger berth posthaste, he turned to his prone companion, “I realize that you promised to frag me into next vorn, but I _do_ have work this cycle.”

Megatron gave a lazy stretch, optics glowing in the aftermath of overload, “Didn’t you tell your lieutenant that you’d be late?”

“We’re currently on the border between ‘late’ and ‘absent’.”

“Then why bother?”

Sighing, he cast a longing look at Megatron before gathering himself, “I should at least finish off the cycle, make sure there isn’t anything critical that needs my attention.”

“Fair enough,” Megatron said. “I could use a bit of recharge anyway.”

“Now who’s wearing who out?”

“Come back over here and I’ll make you eat those words.”

Orion smiled and shook his head, snapping his mask back into place as he made for the door, “Later.”

“Don’t take too long.”

Orion hummed in agreement as he slipped from his quarters.

He was halfway to the police facility before he realized that Springarm had never commed him back.

 

His office was dark and silent.

The street lights were dimmed in anticipation of offshift cycle, but it was far too early for his lieutenants to have left yet. Hesitating on the steps of the building, Orion checked his blaster before entering.

Fragments of glass and metal crunched beneath his feet. His office was trashed, desk swept clean and datapads scattered across the floor. His case of trophies was decimated, shelves cleared of badges of merit. Cleared and replaced with something else.

His spark turned over in his chest.

Two disembodied heads stared out at him, trailing wires and broken energon lines, mouths open and optics dark. Scraped plating in familiar colors.

Springarm and Wheelarch.

Beneath the shelf was a note etched out in bold, sloppy glyphs:

_“Bad policy to be late for work, CAPTAIN.”_

The pulse of his spark seemed far too loud, pounding against his internals. He scanned the room, taking in the chaos, noting Springarm and Wheelarch’s bodies, piled haphazardly in a corner, with a cool, strange detachment.

_They were taken by surprise. Must have been those three from before, Sentinel’s forces. They were looking for me most likely, but they didn’t find me and they’re not here anymore—_

Detachment vanished as panic roared through him.

_Then they’ll be looking for me at home!_

 

Orion was sure he’d broken every speeding limitation on Cybertron in his mad dash. Transforming as he skidded to a halt before his building, he yanked out his blaster and hurried inside.

The halls were empty, mercifully. No sign that the bots had run across any potential witnesses. Or at least it seemed they’d let anyone who’d glimpsed them live.

Maybe they wanted to be seen.

Glancing around each corner, he systematically worked his way towards his quarters, even as his spark shrieked at him to _hurry, hurry, hurry_.

“I don’t think he’s here either. Where’d the fragging glitch get to?”

Must have been one of the ones who hadn’t spoken to him, he didn’t recognize the voice. Peering around the last corner on his floor, he caught a quick glimpse of them, grouped before his door.

His _open_ door.

_No time for this. Have to subdue them before they hurt anyone else._

_And if they’ve—_ He couldn’t complete the thought. _I’ll see them in pieces. Every lackey, every smug politician, all the way up to Proteus himself._

_I’ll take the Senate apart with my bare hands._

Whipping around the corner, he aimed his blaster, “Don’t move!”

Blaster fire streaked towards him and he ducked, returning it. A shriek of pain let him know he’d found his mark. Firing steadily, he forced them down the hall, away from his quarters.

Agony flared in his shoulder and back; a lucky shot, deflected off the alloys of the walls. Staggering, he stumbled the last few steps to his door and lifted his blaster, unerringly seeking out the sparkchamber of their leader…

Click, empty.

For a moment he stared deactivation full in the face and then something wrenched him back into the shelter of his quarters. Blaster fire pinged off his berthroom door as it was jerked bodily shut.

“Friends of yours, Orion?”

His spark surged with joy, “Megatron!”

The miner gave him a lopsided smile, “In the future, you might want to make sure your _exterior_ doors are blastproof as well.”

“It’s on my to-do list.”

The solid, ringing thud of brute force applied echoed against the door and a deep dent appeared in the metal. Megatron frowned, “Blastproof or not, that won’t hold forever, and you need medical attention. You have any weapons stored away in here?”

He shook his head in frustration, gesturing towards a cabinet on his wall, “Nothing but badges and a decorative handheld cannon. And it’s too tight in here for either of us to shift to alt mode, slag it!”

“A decorative cannon?”

“An old model, empty and with no ammunition.”

Megatron stared at the cabinet in consideration, “Maybe we don’t need any.”

 

Glass shattered beneath Megatron’s fist. Ripping the small cabinet door of its hinges, he reached in among the debris and plucked the cannon from its resting place. Hefting the silver gun, he glanced down the sight, “It’s a good-sized model.”

“But empty, unless you want to use it as a club.”

“I’m not going to use it,” Megatron set the cannon down on Orion’s berth. “I’m going to scan it.”

Unease effervesced in his processor, “Scan it?”

“I saw your badges of merit,” Megatron said. In the darkness of the berthroom, only his eyes stood out clearly, two glowing points of crimson. “Including the ones for sharpshooting. It makes the most sense for me to do it. You aim, I’ll fire.”

His spark roiled, but he couldn’t deny the soundness of the plan, “Do it.”

Megatron nodded and activated his scanners. Green light flickered briefly and went dark. 

And Megatron began to transform.

He’d never seen a bot with a non-vehicle alt before. It seemed impossible that the bulk of Megatron’s body could be condensed into this narrow, sleek shape. But smoothly, his components folded, and continued to fold, an endless tessellation. Reaching out, he caught the weapon before it could fall. 

His hand locked around the grip as though they’d been designed to fit together. Once again a wave of familiarity washed through him and he shuddered.

“Orion?” Megatron’s voice was urgent. “Are you alright?”

He straightened, gathering himself, “Fine.” Tucking the gun up against him, he angled his body out of sightline of the door, released the locking codes, wrenched it open, and fired.

The kickback was incredible, sending waves of pain through his damaged components, but elation surged as the cannon ripped through alloys, blasting a massive hole through the wall of his quarters and into the hallway. Somewhere, a bot howled in agony.

Leaping over the wreckage of his rooms, he brought the cannon to bear on the corridor. The bot who had threatened him, threatened _them_ , lifted his blaster.

They fired.

The bot disintegrated, components scattering across the hall in so much shrapnel. The backwash of heat from the cannon rippled over him. Lowering the weapon slightly, he surveyed the damage.

The bot who he’d blasted lay limp, offline or in stasis. The other, who’d been clipped by cannon fire, was ripped in half, fingers clawing at the floor in reflex as he bled out. Pressed against the wall of the corridor, another was huddled.

Whirl.

Orion stalked over to the cowering mech, “On your feet!”

Whirl shook his head, over and over, moaning “No, no, no. Captain, I never wanted—”

The cannon tugged itself free from his grip and behind him, he heard Megatron transform, “I said, on your feet!”

Whirl stared up at him, incredulous, “You could have just walked away. What was the point of all this? You think there’s a court on Cybertron that will charge me? You even try it and they’ll destroy you.” His optic flicked towards Megatron, “They’ll destroy both of you. No one will ever even find all the pieces!”

Cold rage flared in his spark. Reaching down, he yanked Whirl upright and began to drag him down the hallway.

“Orion,” Megatron’s voice seemed strangely quiet in the wake of all the destruction. “Where are you taking him?”

“To the Senate,” he spat. “And bring your datapad. I think there’s something on there they need to hear.”

A hand on his shoulder halted him, “Wait a moment, think about this. If you challenge the Senate openly—”

“Then what? They’ll imprison me, deactivate me? I don’t care, I’m going to hold up a mirror and show the whole of Cybertron the true nature of that den of corruption if it’s the last thing—” Vertigo washed over him and he staggered.

“Orion!”

Stumbling, he sank to his knees as static squealed through his audio receptors.

_“Prime?”_

Disequilibrium surged and he found himself staring up into Megatron’s concerned face. Visual feed wavered and for a moment the blocky curves of Megatron’s mining helmet morphed into an elaborate helm, color washing to a glossy purple.

_“Prime?”_

_Who, what—?_

“Orion?”

“I, I can’t…” 

Panic swelled in his spark as visual feed flickered and cut out entirely. From nearby he heard Megatron curse and then solid arms slid beneath him, lifting “We need to get you to a medic.”

“Please!” he gasped, clawing at Megatron’s shoulders blindly, processor spinning with confusion and irrational terror. “Please don’t leave.”

Silence, the sway and tug of gravity as Megatron bore him forward. And then:

“I will stay.”

Body sense evaporated and he tried in vain to thrash in the utter absence of sensory information.

_“Prime?”_

_“Prime, can you hear me?”_

_“Optimus?”_


	2. Chapter 2

He surged online with a gasp. Hands clamped across his shoulders, pinning him to the medberth.

“Easy, Optimus,” Ratchet frowned down at him. “The concussion from the harpoon must have hit you harder than we’d predicted. I _warned_ you not to cut it too close.” 

Memory data trickled in, slow and fragmented. Megatron, nearly unrecognizable, a threat to the city. A plan, a fight, a diversion, the unbelievable detonation of a human weapon.

Pain and darkness.

Trembling he tried to recalibrate his chronometer, to recapture some sense of the lost megacycles, “How did I get back to the ship?”

Ratchet gave him an unreadable look, “That’s the peculiar bit. Megatron brought you.”

His spark twisted within him, “And?”

“And then he surrendered. Perceptor’s scanning him in the brig right now for explosives.”

Inconceivable, impossible, “Megatron never does anything without a reason.” _Why would he surrender? What’s his game this time?_

Ratchet gave him a tight nod, “Then I’m guessing you should go find out what that reason is.”

 

It was torture, watching him through the small window embedded in the brig door. Even latched into the Variable Voltage Harness, Megatron exuded the kind of calm arrogance that came with knowing that you were the largest, the most powerful. There was no trace of the gentle miner who had defied Whirl and had been punished for doing so. Or perhaps this was the culmination of that miner, a solid, sleek body, shaped for war, shaped _only_ for war.

Nothing but the face remained. 

_The vanity of tyrants, I called it. I’ve never wished so badly for him to be a little less conceited._

He had seen that face twisted in rage, unguarded with laughter, alight with mischief, strange yet beautiful in overload. He knew it as well as his own, and despite the warning pings from his logic circuits he couldn’t stop the joyful flare of recognition in his spark.

_It’s just…residue. Left over from the dream, the vision, whatever it was. It doesn’t mean anything._

_And I have to get myself together if I’m to have any hope of successfully interrogating him. This is too important to frag up._

He allowed himself a single click, bracing against the hull of the ship, before he transmitted the locking codes. He stepped into the dim room, “Omega, give us some privacy.”

Unbelievably, his voice didn’t shake.

Metal squeaked and ground as Omega complied, and Megatron’s optics flicked up, locking with his own.

“Prime.”

“Megatron.”

 

_I can’t do this._

From the very beginning, he realized he’d lost control of the situation. He’d brought Megatron down from the VVH, offered him a chair so they could speak like civilized creatures, but it had done no good. Megatron turned his probes back on him, answered his questions in riddles, and very soon the conversation had devolved into the kind of argument he’d seen Kup engage in, a petty one-up comparison of war wounds that made them sound about an extra three hundred megavorns older than they really were.

_He’s right, he knows me too well. What buttons to push, what wires to twist…Slag responsibility, I should have handed him over to a better interrogator, Prowl maybe. Someone who can look at him and not see a friend, a lover, which just brings home how ridiculous this is because he’s never been either..._

_Maybe I am losing my mind._

“What’s the matter, Prime? The old processor fry on you?”

Belatedly he realized he’d fallen silent for a good three clicks. Megatron was watching him, a mocking look on his face, edged with something that had he not known better, he would have called concern.

He tried to speak, processor groping for an appropriate barb.

What he said was, “I’m tired.”

Megatron started. It was a miniscule movement, but he tracked it and some antagonistic part of him curled with satisfaction that he’d managed to shock him. But then despair welled and he buried his face in his hands, ignoring the shrieks of his battle computer that he was turning his back on an enemy.

“I…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, but even shame at his weakness couldn’t bring him to lift his head. Braced on the platform of his knees, his arms shook.

And then a touch, heavy but gentle, brushed across the back of his helm and froze him.

At first he couldn’t believe it, but the electrical field was unmistakable. Megatron’s broad hand cupped him, fingers curling around the shape of his helm, small awkward strokes that moved gradually into rhythm.

“Why did you do it?” a meaningless question perhaps, but the only question that he could ask. His voice was hoarse in his audio sensors. “Why did you surrender?”

The stroking didn’t falter, “You should know better than to ask questions to which you already know the answer.”

Anguish and petty frustration at Megatron’s purposeful obtuseness warred in him, but he cycled his vents and forced himself to _think_. To delve into the darkness and confusion that colored the previous megacycles.

And he knew.

“I asked you to stay.”

“Yes.”

The solid structure of Megatron’s arms beneath him had been real. He’d cried out to a phantom and been heard by the genuine article. 

“Why?”

“Because, Optimus,” Megatron’s voice shaped the syllables of his designation as though they tasted unfamiliar. “In less than a breem, you both begged for my death and pleaded with me never to leave you. Forgive me if that made me question your sanity.”

He let out a choked laugh, “You’re questioning _my_ sanity?”

Megatron rumbled in amusement, “I believe the fleshling idiom is ‘Pot, Kettle’.”

“So what, you stayed because you were _worried_ about me?”

“Is that so inconceivable?”

“I’d think you’d be anticipating the day I finally cracked and collapsed.”

“A hollow victory is worse than no victory at all,” there was something odd in Megatron’s tone.

“I don’t even think I know what victory would look like anymore.”

Megatron made a low noise of acknowledgment and slid his hand around Optimus’ helm to cradle his chin. His free hand, weighted with the mass of his rail gun, reached out, gripped his shoulder guard and pulled him gently forward.

In a moment of madness, Optimus went.

Easing forward, he let his legs fold beneath him, bringing him to his knees before Megatron’s chair. The fingers beneath his chin tightened infinitesimally, tipping his head up.

Disequilibrium swirled as Megatron examined him, searching for something perhaps, though for what he could not have begun to guess. Fingers stroked across the shape of his battlemask. 

“I guess you’ve waited a long time to see me like this.”

Megatron’s hand wandered up across the curve of his helm, touching the long spines of his antennae and he shuddered at the tactile and electrical stimulation, “Not as long as you might think.” He paused, considering, “But since you are here…”

His interface cover slid back. And though his spike did not extend and his cooling fans had so far remained quiescent, Optimus still felt a tremor of uncertainty. Potential humiliation, the like of which he could barely imagine, loomed large, tangled with ethics and legality, “I’m not sure I can.”

“Refusal is of course an option,” Megatron responded. “However, you did me the courtesy of trying to create a neutral space. I can return the favor by assuring you this is not a blackmail attempt.”

Still, impossible to comprehend, that Megatron would even want him this way and his continuing hesitation must have shown.

“Would it make you feel more confident to know that you are the first I have asked in over twenty megavorns?”

“You actually lost count?”

“It simply no longer seemed important.”

A little, tender pain in his spark, the thought of that connection, that comfort. No longer important. Raising his hands, he stroked along Megatron’s thighs, parting them so he could move closer, allowing his electrical field to expand and overlap with Megatron’s own.

A small shiver in that huge body. Somewhere, a single cooling fan clicked on. Parting his mask, he nuzzled into Megatron’s interface array and licked across the spike housing.

The hand still cupping his helm went rigid and more cooling fans roared to life. Shifting his head out of the way, he allowed the spike to pressurize before leaning forward and taking it in his mouth.

Megatron’s vents hissed and his body arched minutely, sliding towards the edge of the chair as he pressed further into Optimus’ mouth, “Ah yes, I’d forgotten.” Both hands reached to cradle Optimus’ helm, a request and a command both.

Relaxing, Optimus allowed him to set the pace, guiding his head in slow, even rhythm until he felt the warning shudders and Megatron pulled him close, pushing in deep as he overloaded. Circuits buzzing with charge, he leaned against Megatron’s leg and watched the spike retract, dazed despite the fact he hadn’t overloaded.

And that was when he noticed it, an aberration, so peculiar that he had to reach out and touch.

Megatron twitched at the sensation as he slid his fingers across his valve aperture, “I’m impressed, Prime. Most bots don’t even ask if they can have a go at that.”

He stroked at the thin, translucent covering, strangely fascinated, “You’re still sealed.”

Megatron shot him a long, incredulous look before allowing his head to clank against the back of his chair, “Let it never be said that Shockwave is not possessed of a sense of humor.”

Laughing softly, he leaned forward and licked, toying with the sensor nodes on the rim, “Want me to take care of it?”

“You think you have the bearings?”

He nipped at the edge and felt Megatron jolt, “I know I do.”

“Big words for a bot on his knees.”

It was a paltry jab, barely even enough to register, but the mocking tone shot through his processor, bringing home the vulnerability of his position and anger swelled hot within him. Nearly blind with rage, his engine growling, he shoved himself from the floor, wrenching those huge legs up and apart as he did so, and thrust into Megatron’s valve.

Megatron jerked as though he’d been shot. They both froze, optics locked and vents cycling.

And then Megatron began to laugh.

Mortified at himself, Optimus tried to withdraw, but solid arms caught him, pulling him down, holding him in place as Megatron continued to laugh.

“Oh, Optimus,” he said, and amused affection flickered through his energy field. “Three hundred megavorns and you still manage to surprise me on occasion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? I would have been disappointed had I goaded you and you did not respond.”

“I…regret hurting you,” he wasn’t sure whether or not he meant their current situation.

Megatron snorted, “Regrets are for those who are dissatisfied with how their lives have played out.” Loosening his grip on Optimus’ hips, he allowed him to withdraw slightly, only to guide him back.

Optimus pressed into him, processor spinning with want. Megatron was warm, tight despite his massive size, and his way was slicked with lubricant from his previous overload. Burying his face against the side of his neck, he gasped out, “Then I suppose you don’t have any regrets?”

“None.”

“Maybe that’s the essential difference between us then.” Megatron’s valve contracted around him and he moaned. “I have many regrets.”

“Oh? And what does the sanctimonious Optimus Prime have to regret?”

Optimus picked up his pace. “I regret the errors in judgment that have led to the deaths of my soldiers. I regret the death of each and every Cybertronian in the course of this war, Autobot or Decepticon. But most of all,” he struggled to form his words through the rising tide of pleasure. “Most of all I regret a single day, vorns and vorns ago. The day I met a miner in Rodion.”

Megatron’s fingers tightened against his plating, which buckled and began to dent, “Rodion?”

“I regret that I did not stop the miner after he passed before my desk. I regret not offering him the hand of friendship, not inviting him to my home, not telling him how his words, still unspoken, had changed me. How they set me on the path to the Senate, the path to becoming who I am today.”

Sagging against the rigid body beneath him, struggling to pull himself back from the precipice, he panted, “I regret not telling him that I believed in his work. I regret not helping him. I regret not showing him that change is possible.”

“The police captain who still believes in hunches.”

“The very same.”

“What are you trying to say, Optimus Prime?”

“Will you help me end this? Will you help me make peace?”

“As usual, Optimus, you ask the wrong questions.”

His circuits humming with unreleased charge, he couldn’t hold back his next thrust, “Will you be with me?”

“Rephrase the question.”

Shaky, he thrust faster, words welling uncontrolled from his processor, “The shadow of Galvatron looms, a threat to our planet’s very existence. Will you help me save it? Will you come with me? Will you lead Cybertron’s armies at my side? Will you help me build our planet anew? Will you…”

His voice dropped to a whisper, but he kept it steady “Will you recharge beside me? Refuel with me? Will you let me hear your poetry? Let me know your spark?”

Silence. He held, waiting.

A short, sharp laugh, “Now, Optimus, I believe you’re learning to ask the right questions.”

Before he could begin to form an answer, he was thrown to the floor.

He jerked his hands up, a motion turned reflex by millennia of repetition, fingers locking with Megatron’s. They grappled, Megatron trying to force his arms down as he strove to overbalance him and escape. But then Megatron managed to straddle him and slid his valve down onto his still-pressurized spike.

He gasped, processor blanking with pleasure, and struggled not to overload there and then. Above him, Megatron chuckled.

“Now, Prime, let me tell you what is going to happen.”

Squeezing their hands tight together, Megatron levered himself upwards and began to thrust.

“We are going to gather up my soldiers and any of your pathetic Autobots that you deem fit fighting material. And we are taking the next shuttle off this worthless hunk of organic soil.”

He wanted to protest the “worthless” comment, but just then Megatron found his rhythm and the tight contractile slide dispersed his words into a helpless moan.

“And when we get to Cybertron, we are going to dismantle this _Galvatron_ piece by piece.”

“And then?” he managed to prompt.

“And then,” Megatron took him deep on the next thrust, grinding himself in a slow circle that sent glimmers of electricity sparking along Optimus’ plating. “Let’s just say, I find the terms of your negotiation…compelling.”

His spark leapt with joy as Megatron’s head arched back, fingers tightening around his own until metal shrieked, and they both tumbled into overload.

_Maybe this is what victory looks like._

 

Rodimus leaned against the bulkhead, struggling to keep his cooling fans under control. Cycling his vents once, he risked a glance at his companions.

Prowl, to his surprise, did not appear to be glitching in response to the illogical _Illogical? More like impossible._ events that appeared to be taking place. Instead he was gazing off into the middle distance, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Ironhide on the other hand, appeared to have just fried something critical.

“Should we?” His vocalizer fritzed and he had to try again. “Should we do something? It’s sounding like things might be getting a bit…out of control?”

Prowl shook his head as someone, he thought it might have been Optimus, cried out in overload _Oh great Primus, do not want to think about Optimus Prime having an overload._ “No, I think, I believe Optimus has negotiations well in hand.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Ratchet.

At the back of the room, Jetfire shifted uneasily, “Can he do that? Ask Megatron to ally with us on our behalf?”

“That’s debatable,” offered Xaaron, who looked far too calm. “Megatron is a war criminal, but based upon Rodimus’s testimony, Galvatron represents a threat the likes of which we’ve never seen before.” He paused, contemplating, “And the Prime has traditionally possessed the right of pardon.”

Bumblebee buried his face in his hands, “This is beyond insane.”

Ratchet snorted, “Well, I’d say insanity’s never been in short supply around here.”

“Our numbers have been greatly reduced,” Jetfire offered, hesitant. “And ultimately Megatron managed to achieve what I understand was his original goal: the toppling of the caste system. If Optimus can wrangle some measure of peace from this without further bloodshed, perhaps that is worth the forgiveness of old wrongs?”

There was a long silence. Rodimus offlined his optics and called up a memory file, fresh and still raw; the terrifying gleam of crimson optics, the agony of a blaster to the chest. He turned it over, examining it from all angles, allowing himself to feel the flow of lingering emotions, fear, hatred.

He onlined his optics and stepped forward.

“Megatron is a monster,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s anyone here who would deny that he’s a monster _we_ created.” He swept his optics across the room, meeting every gaze in turn; barely repressed rage, careful neutrality, cautious optimism. “If it means saving our home, I’m willing to offer him forgiveness and cooperation instead of hatred. I think we already know where that will get us. And maybe, when this madness is over, we’ll all actually have a home to go back to.”

And slowly, impossibly, he felt them loosen, energy fields glowing bright with agreement, with determination. From across the room, he caught a glimpse of Xaaron watching him.

Prowl straightened, all business, “Come, everyone. There’s a great deal still left to do to get this ship ready for takeoff.”

The crew dispersed to their various posts, some silent, here and there the uneasy mutter between two or three. Only Xaaron remained.

Suddenly realizing how presumptuous he must have sounded, Rodimus looked away in embarrassment, “Er, I didn’t mean to step on any toes, Emirate Xaaron.”

Xaaron shook his head, “No worries, Rodimus. I was only thinking.”

“What about?”

Bright optics met his own and Xaaron’s face broke into a smile, “That when the Matrix chooses, it chooses well.”


End file.
